"five six pick up sticks and fetch a stone for robert. a bone is a collection of marine images from deep space. on the space ship we collect storage floors of bones. i fetch a dog from the telescope and she limits me in multiple synchronous programs, my venous stretch out marine images. in my massive jaws i fetch stones." - Hobo Magician, The Mad Hog.

Quality Textures: 64x64 px  - 300x300 px  - 1200x1200 px

Performance Quality of Life Maintenance: 300mb< Peak Performance Dedication

Identify as an Individual:  Multiple Endings Per Player Self Identification System

In the beginning there was an idea, a collection of dreams similar to each other which would become our initial concept for the circumstances. By the point in time where we are able to hold our dreams together and we stretch out our hands in unison as the concept takes shape in unusual ways. Just the thing we needed. So we took charge and at our place in time it became clear that we would need to juxtapose our initial concepts with the exterior reality which sat limp before us bringing a much-needed middle ground.

By the middle of our confrontation with the problems that needed to be addressed we were able to have a conversation about the abnormal nature of our obstructions to be told many years down the line.  There was a creepy figure who would come into our lives and they would smile at every little thing we would do, any movement we made and any sound we had provided had been followed closely by the monster of dead mocking tone. the skin grew cold and our muscles would seize in the night as regret would fill our flesh and body in the attempt to become mother nature. While we had been taught in our ways, caught in a snare of bias with the potential of a diseased reality looming over our heads as the big shadow of impending doom. the premise though clear as ever would only promote the prioritization of the unseen, a tumor of what would become unknown as we grew closer to the horizon. That was about the time where it would rear its ugly smile from the big shadows and we would have to make a choice to a means for a better ending.

In the end there were none. None left to take the tone of mock and mimic or there be to enchant the tree for falling, our choice had proven fate itself to be of its own will separate to our own. When we had heard the stories of its fallen brothers we had become that of which we heard. It grew on our skin like algae our previously established titles a swamp of what became known too much to be of use, a swamp of bias and a tell to our inner realities that would turn all clarity into a sharp needle charged with electricity and malice. A much-needed middle ground to the collapse of fallen memories who would prove their relation to the whole of as opposed to the individual place in time. Our hands had fallen to rot and injustice a memory of concepts or dreams together in hold would turn sludge or slime, oozing back into the swamp of self identifying self holding a bias of the perfect house of mirrors in a growing and degrading structure that cycles back from the bias into itself being that of a swamp from previous oozing cycle structures.